Greenfield
by Indigo Code
Summary: "Why not a different game?" said the Narrator. "It'll be fun, Stanley," said the Narrator. Stanley seems to fancy the change. The Narrator, however... not so much. *a tad cracked. I'm just going for it. T for minor language.
1. Prologue

_Hey, since my game is so awful, why don't we play someone else's game—just to ease the pain?_

* * *

"Mister Mayor, sir?" Isabelle scuttled through the Town Hall. With the sounds of squeaky feet bouncing off the walls, she made it over from her receptionist counter and over to the dark, disorderly desk in the far back of the room. She smiled timidly like she always did and drew out her pad of notes.

"What's happening?" A yawn came from the large, leather office chair behind the desk. The chair, which at first faced away from Isabelle, spun around in a 180, allowing a pair of feet to rest on the surface of the desk.

"Well, Mayor—sir," said Isabelle, "today is April 19, 2014. It's currently 12:07 in the afternoon…"

"I've got a watch, Isabelle." The Mayor laughed, and Isabelle shrunk back. She nodded and proceeded to flip through five pages of notes, chuckling with her boss—though, hesitantly.

"Of—Of course… Of course. I just—wanted to remind you, that's all." She flipped to the tenth page, gaining a small part of her assurance back. The Mayor leaned forward in his chair to listen.

"Today the Keep Greenfield Beautiful ordinance was activated, which means fewer weeds. The villagers are now more encouraged to plant, and more flowers are growing, like roses and pansies—and lilies… I love lilies; it's nice to see them growing more often."

The Mayor straightened up, smoothing out his green blazer. He was never a formal man, but he had to keep his image tidy most of the time. "That's great to hear. Anything else?"

"Yes, Dr. Shrunk arrived at the Hall yesterday morning. He told me he came to your house personally—no one answered. He figured you were asleep and asked me to, um, ask you if he could set up a comedy center on Main Street. Something called 'Club LOL', I believe."

The Mayor arched an eyebrow. Testing out the odd word slowly, he then asked Isabelle what in the world a "lol" was. Sounded like something fished out of the ocean, or the effect of a tonsillitis surgery gone awry.

"I think it stands for 'Laugh Out Loud', sir," replied Isabelle.

"Laugh Out Loud… Looolll… " The Mayor was deep in thought as he stroked the imaginary hairs on his chin. Isabelle imagined a light bulb flickering to life upon his head when he grinned and acknowledged Dr. Shrunk's witty use of wording. If he could conjure up something so sharp he was sure to be a big hit on the stage. A lot of good entertainment, a lot of visitors for the town—how devilishly brilliant, thought the Mayor. He couldn't have thought of anything more ingenious than that.

"Tell him I approve one hundred and fifty-five percent!"

Isabelle shied away. She always felt it would be better not to discuss drawbacks, whether it'd be for a new building or for fixing a light in a streetlamp. "Here's the thing, sir… In order to initiate the construction of Club LOL, we'll need at least six signatures from the villagers… But—we don't _have _to have a club if the process is too timewasting for you. I'm more than willing to talk with Dr. Shrunk about the decline—well, I'll be sad, of course. But you have to do what you have to do for the good of—"

"Time wasting! I've got more time than I need, Isabelle. Tell Dr. Shrunk I'll get his signatures in by next week."

"Y—Yes, sir!" Isabelle stood tall and gave a salute before heading to the door. The Mayor expressed his thanks and turned to his work, which was crafting a paper airplane—who said work had to be tedious?

Isabelle took a hold on the door handle when she remembered a notice she had so easily forgotten. She whirled back to the Mayor.

"Mister Mayor!" she called out. "I have one last thing! I'm sorry I didn't mention it before, though. Easily distracted… it's a habit. My apologies…"

The Mayor looked up from his desk. "I'm listening."

"There's a new visitor coming into town tomorrow. It would be kind of you—as the Mayor—to introduce yourself to him. I'm sure it would make him feel welcome. Hospitality and such."

"Do you have a name yet?"

"I sure do! It's… Just give me a moment of your time, please." She flicked through a page or two, skimming through a cluster of scribbly words. She was always lost in her own handwriting. Such a pesky fault.

"It's Steven."

The Mayor was a bit surprised; he figured something more unique—perhaps a "Fuchsia" or a "Bitty". Of course, a good portion of the villagers had common names, but some bore incredibly strange titles to which the Mayor would very much admire.

"I'll get right to it. 'Preciate the suggestion, Isabelle."

Isabelle curtsied, gave her timid smile, and shuffled out the door. 


	2. What a Cat Person

The Narrator never liked traveling.

Not away from the complex, of course. He found it too risky—the adventure storyteller found it too risky. After his disaster with It™ that shall not be named, getting lost served as an awful fear to him. So when he acted on a whim—no—when he got ticked off and decided to go against his better judgment, he felt it was in the best interest of both him and Stanley to change the scenery a bit. Just a bit.

And when he found himself on that train to nowhere, he realized that he made one of the dumbest decisions in his life.

Now he stared out the window, sulking, wishing that the ride would end very, very shortly.

"You're going to Greenfield, right?"

The Narrator glanced over to whoever spoke and almost suffered a heart attack right there on the spot.

"Woah! Hey, don't get train-sick on me now!" said the cat. Yes, the Narrator couldn't believe it either.

It was a blue and white cat, with the pointy ears and tail and practically everything any man or child could consider as "feline". It also held onto some strangely… _human_ characteristics, from the fingers to the feet to the elbows to the proportionate body length—it even wore an argyle sweater and slacks. However, these features were watered down, in a way, turning him into a cartoon of a character other than some overly detailed oddity of nature and evolution.

_Holy hell, what have I been drinking?_

The Narrator fell into a state of shock, clutching his heart with his eyes as big as china dishes, looking as if he leaped off the train himself.

"You must not ride around often." The cat's head cocked to one side. He had a light but solid voice, and a friendly one at that. "I've seen a lot of people, but I've never seen one in a bright yellow suit!"

"Are you okay there—or are you usually this quiet?"

At last, the Narrator came to his senses. So he calmed down, made sure his heart was still beating, and assessed the situation with caution.

"I'm… fine. I'm—I'm fine. I'm alright." His voice was shaking like his hands. The cat appeared relieved at his response.

"For a second I thought I needed to call help. I'm glad to hear that I don't!" he joked, lowering to a whisper as he then added, "I don't have to call for help, right? You're okay?"

"… Yes."

"Great!" The cat invited himself to sit in the seat across from the Narrator, lacked the words to respond.

"How impolite—I've met you for three minutes and I didn't give you my name!"

"You have a _name_ too?"

"Just like you and any other. It seems I'm not so different, I guess." The cat held out his hand/paw/whatever you could call it in this circumstance for a welcoming. "I'm Rover."

Shaking the hand of a big blue and white cat in a red argyle sweater was both settling and unsettling to the Narrator, but he accepted it either way.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"What?"

"I'm sure you have a name too."

The Narrator never thought on this before. It seemed utterly ridiculous how he couldn't remember if he was ever given a real name. All this time he felt content with just "The Narrator". And it's not like Stanley ever wanted to call him by anything other than what he was put on this Earth to do; it would take the authority out of his title. He _could_ think of an alias, though. How about something creative…

"Steven. My name is Steven."

Nailed it.

"Steven. Hm," said Rover, thinking over his name. "I like it! It fits you." With that, the Narrator responded with a "thank you".

"So, ah—Steven, I see you're heading to Greenfield."

"I'm not so sure where that is…"

"That's what it says on your ticket, or has all the sightseeing left me going blind?" Rover was quietly laughing at his joke while he pointed a finger at the ticket sticking out of the Narrator's slate gray vest pocket. Retrieving the slip, the Narrator squinted to see the miniscule text.

_Class: STD Ticket type: CHEAP DAY RTN Adult: ONE Child: NIL_

_Date: 20 - APR - 14 Number: 28458 889054378w12_

_From: N/A Valid: ON DATE SHOWN Price: N/A_

_To: GREENFIELD Route: 1957_

"Would you look at that…"

"I didn't mean to snoop." Rover raised his arms, as if to surrender. "I just saw where you were going to and got curious. I've got an acquaintance that's doing pretty well over there."

"Who might that be?" The Narrator didn't look up from his ticket.

"Oh, you'll know when you see 'im. His face may be forgettable, but his job sure isn't!"

"On the subject of forgettable faces," said the Narrator, tucking the ticket back into his pocket, "did you happen to see or hear in any way about a man named Stanley?"

"A man named Stanley?"

"Yes, a man named Stanley."

Rover looked as if he was trying his best not to grin and covered his mouth. "I don't think it'll be a hassle to find him. Is he a friend to you?"

"Somewhat. We had a slight…"—The Narrator struggled finding the proper word to use—"_altercation_, earlier. Now I don't have a clue where he's at."

"I'm sorry about that. That's probably why you're riding the train, huh—to catch up with him again?"

"No, actually. I don't why I'm riding on a train."

When the train began to slow, Rover motioned to the window. "Look," he said cheerfully. "Here's your stop."

The world looked beautiful from the window. The cloudiness didn't take away from the positivity. The trees, green and full, stood tall along the wooden fence. The grass looked cleanly cut for miles. It was too much for the Narrator to take in. All loveliness aside, he felt intimidated by the open-space. Too risky for the adventure storyteller. _Far_ too risky.

"Tell Stanley I said 'hi' for me, will ya'?" Rover shook his hand again, said his goodbyes, and moved into a farther seat.

The train made its stop at the tiny train station. When the doors opened, and when the Narrator could feel his legs once more, he saw that no one was there—no, wait. There was a man in a green blazer, beaming like a looney, waving his top hat around in the air.

_Oh. Dammit._

"Hi, Mister Narrator!" said Stanley.


	3. Semi-Formal Reunion

_"__Stanley!"_

The Narrator was seen stumbling out of the train like a sightless, drunken man after tripping over a step. Grasping onto Stanley's sleeve, he spared himself a trip to the infirmary and pulled himself up. Stanley didn't seem to mind.

"Stan… Stanley!" the Narrator managed to say, terribly winded, pausing to wheeze in between words. "Dear God, Stanley! Where… have you been? And why—" He took note of his colleague's attire as he fixed his green sleeve. He stepped back.

"… Are you wearing basketball shorts with a blazer?" Silence quickly arose. Stanley glanced down at himself, not really understanding the negative aspect of that question. He could've worn pink pajamas to the reunion and not find it anything of it out of the ordinary. So he simply glanced back up and shrugged.

"Never mind. That's not necessary at this moment," said the Narrator, creating a flicking motion with his hands. "The question still remains, however: Where did you go?

"I was on the train for three hours, Stanley. Now don't tell me you've already messed up the game while I was gone."

"Did you see Rover on the train?" asked Stanley.

"Yes, and he said 'hi'—but that's not the point!" the Narrator replied cuttingly.

"One moment we're playing a game with a baby, and then I'm thrown aboard this train to who-knows-where! With a cat. A _cat…"_

"Rover."

"Whatever. I almost fainted out of shock. Bless the guy… at least he had a decent personality. But—I was just terrified for that brief moment…"

"I didn't know you were afraid of cats." Stanley snickered and adjusted the top hat on his head. The Narrator gripped the front of his gray vest, recalling the heart-stopping episode, and then he mumbled, "I think we've had enough time outside.

"Can we go home now, Stanley?"

Stanley's looney grin, for the first time since their reunion, faltered. "Actually…" His voice was losing cheeriness, but it still sounded musical.

"What is it?"

Stanley tried to express his words. This allowed a lengthy and awkward suspension of sound to arise. "I've got to go to work tomorrow…"

"Work?" The Narrator's eyebrows narrowed in suspicion.

"Yeah… at… my office. Here."

_"__Here!"_ cried the Narrator. "You've already got a job! What good could you possibly have with two jobs? Do they even have _currency _here?" He went on,

"Well, I suppose you've got a new house with that job! And a car—and a different wife!"

"You mean the mannequin?"

"Yes, _the mannequin!" _The Narrator's tone of voice went through the roof. However, he calmed himself down shortly after.

"The point is, Stanley," he grumbled, "You're story—_the_ story—is back over there, where we came from. There's a time and a place for these levels of ridiculousness! We've got an agenda, Stanley. We've got a system…"

Stanley cut in, "Then how do you suppose we get back?"

The Narrator, determined to prove his judgments correct, twirled on the heels of his feet to where his back was turned towards. His state of misguided eagerness was promptly crushed when he saw the tunnel empty, lacking the train to home. He fell to his knees, mouth slightly open and deprived of words, as if he didn't have the energy to scream _"WHY ME?" _like he wanted to.

So he just sat there. Too dumbfounded to even move.

Stanley soon stepped forward. He'd admit that he was in the smallest bit amused at the Narrator's bafflement, but it quickly lost its humor and he began to feel bad for him. He then modestly offered the Narrator to stay at his new home for the indefinite future.

The Narrator's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he frowned at his knees. "… Alright."

* * *

They left the train station and stepped outside, where it had begun to rain greatly. The two had only experienced rain by the heavy patters coming from behind the windows—and even then the white emptiness prevented them from seeing what was actually there, outside the office complex.

While a person with a preference for neatness such as him would not hesitate to shield their head from the weather, the Narrator simply gaped at the sky and strolled through the freshly cut grass as if the sun shined. With his attention focused solely on his surroundings, he failed to notice Stanley achieving a bright red umbrella from thin air and opening it above his own head.

Vividly colored flowers scattered the ground randomly, popping out against the darkened landscape. And yes, the two had rarely seen plants so bright and full of life at the office. They had a fern, and that was about it. The trees, also full of life, bore apples in plentiful amounts. Only few were reduced to stumps and many were merely saplings.

They passed a young and seemingly important tree singled out by a small border of stone. Its leaves, green and full, and its bark free of moss. Stanley clarified that the citizens planted the tree in celebration of the new mayor.

In the distance, an umbrella bearing a zebra stripe pattern could be seen. Stanley knew precisely who owned this quite flashy umbrella and called out to them. "Hey, Miranda!" he shouted over the rain.

It was difficult to see who exactly Miranda was in the weather, until she came toddling to the two.

Miranda was a duck, as tall as Stanley's shoulder, bubbly pink feathers and a yellow bill. The purple coat she wore seemed a tad too large for her figure and stopped at her ankles.

"Darling!" she said to Stanley, her voice a bit nasally. After hugging him, she began to lightly pick at his collar. "… Oh, Stan, what have I told you about compliments?"

"Compliments?" Stanley seemed puzzled.

"Red shorts, green suit piece—in April?"

Miranda rolled her eyes as she secured her umbrella between her head and her shoulder and adjusted the man's tie with her now free hands (?). "Poor baby, wouldn't last a day without my advice. I'm afraid you'll be walking around in jorts if I weren't around. Still, it's hard to stay mad at you."

The Narrator wasn't as terrified watching Miranda as he was meeting Rover; in the back recesses of his mind, he saw it coming—and also from the fact that he remembered skimming over the title _Animal Crossing _before deciding a change of game. That also might've contributed. On the other hand, it's difficult to say he grew used to walking, talking, cartoon animal-people.

Miranda's beady black eyes darted to the side and stared straight at the Narrator. Without withdrawing her attention, she gently pulled Stanley down to reach her height and murmured in his ear, "You don't mind telling me why your friend doesn't have an umbrella, or a coat, do you?"

The Narrator noticed how foolish he looked standing about in the rain without any sort of gear. He saw how his once clean and pressed suit now clung to him and was saturated in water, and he instantly felt self-conscious.

"I'm so sorry, Miranda," he apologized automatically. "About my appearance—I apologize for that. I'm… what'sit—_Steven_."

The Narrator held out his hand. Miranda appeared distrustful, mildly confused, but she still accepted his handshake.

"I'm not surprised you've already heard of me. Let me guess where—Shampoodle?" she said.

"Wait, what?"

"Hm. Probably out of town… Even better!" Miranda clapped her hands in glee. "Don't worry, dear, you'll fit right in. You're not the worst I've seen… Avery still wears that hideous 8-ball shirt."

"Miranda!" scolded Stanley. Miranda only shrugged it off with an offhand "I'm just teasing", patting his arm affectionately.

"I suppose it's time for you two to go back inside. I'd hate for you to catch pneumonia, or see that suit permanently wrinkled forever. I'll see you on Wednesday, Stanley."

"You too." Stanley and the Narrator walked along until they reached a house no bigger than a toll booth. A humble little blue roof topped the meek looking home in an arch. A cute little picket fence bordered the walls. The Narrator did his best not to look unimpressed. It truly was cute for such a small dwelling.

The tiniest sound—like merrily chiming bells—rung out as Stanley opened the door and the two stepped inside.


	4. Mayor of the Month

It was like stepping into a clown car; the outside, an oddly handsome little backyard shed, while the inside looked more like that of a home. Stanley preferred simplicity and only furnished his house with the basic necessities and also some knickknacks here and there. The Narrator stopped dead before stepping further onto the shag carpet, realizing how that thoughtless walk in the rain now got back at him.

"Don't fuss on it, Mister Narrator," said Stanley. He was already over to the dresser, putting away his dripping umbrella. "Or should I say 'Steven'?"

"I much prefer the prior, thank you," replied the Narrator, still picky about dirtying the carpet and refusing to budge. Surprisingly though, his clothes were, by this time, remarkably dry; the fear of filthy floors had left just as they arose. Some witchcraft, he joked to himself.

Stanley sat on the edge of the blue bed after placing his top hat into the dresser. "It's a small home, I know. But it doesn't trouble me a lot, so I'm not in a rush to pay for the extra expansion fees." He started the string of small talk.

"It's… quaint." The Narrator was clearly not one to carry a normal, shared conversation very far. His focus drifted to the untidy stack of enveloped letters, all of them handwritten in either ink or pencil—written by others._Others… _"How many live here, Stanley?"

"You mean people like Rover and Miranda?" Stanley responded.

"Yes, technically."

Stanley, in attempt to answer his colleague's question, counted by his fingers, eventually holding up seven fingers to the Narrator. "About seven villagers," he replied. "Not counting the shop keepers—Main Street too. Oh, and also the mailman and the captain that works for the island place, and Isabelle."

_Seven villagers._ Greenfield was apparently true to its name. Everything seemed—as described by the Narrator—quaint. Wow. Seven villagers.

"You singled out Isabelle," he said bluntly.

"Isabelle's my secretary." Stanley sounded merry as he went on a bit about Isabelle. "She's pretty dedicated, which is great and all, being the only worker at the Hall—or at least, the only worker I've seen at the Hall. Worried about her nervousness, though…" The Narrator's back stiffened at the word "secretary". "What profession do you even _have_?" he asked.

"I'm the Mayor." Stanley had been messing with the buckles of his shoes and was in a state of nonchalance. Contradicting Stanley's flippant nature, all the color in the Narrator's face drained to white. His attention somehow derailed and he thought on about the Town Tree, planted near the north side of town to rejoice the arrival of the new mayor: _Stanley_. That tree looked about young but definitely developed. He knew, according to Stanley's information, they had planted a _sapling _during that ceremony…

Dropping the subject with haste, he asked if Stanley had the time, to which Stanley replied by pulling out a pocket watch, glimpsing at it, and stating "Quarter to seven." This gave the Narrator another, much more important question to bring up.

"Stanley," he said. "How long have you been here?"

Stanley resorted to counting on his fingers again.

"… A month and a half."

The Narrator failed to emotionally or verbally respond. Rigidly, he took a seat on the white sofa, which looked dark compared to the man's vacant, impassive face. Stanley didn't say anything; too many questions have been asked today. He opened up his dresser again, dragging out an unused doctor's coat from the far back—a good substitute for a blanket. Stanley handed the coat to the Narrator, who took it, absent-minded. In his blazer and basketball shorts, he crawled into his own bed and shut off the bedside lamp—a quiet way to say "Have a goodnight."

The Narrator couldn't bear to sleep.


End file.
